Butter Off Dead (3 page)

My own love life had taken another twist, one that still took me by surprise.

“What are you girls doing?”

“Mom.” Even after working with my mother most of a year, I don't always remember to call her “Fresca,” short for “Francesca,” at the shop. I licked butter and salt off my fingers. “Try some. It's really good.”

“With one of your special seasonings?” She scooped about six kernels into a red-and-white paper boat. “The secret is portion control,” she always says when I worry about my weight, but clearly I had not inherited her metabolism, or her flawless olive skin, oval face, and perfect features.

“We went classic for the first batch.”

“Classic is good.” She licked a finger, her Coral Sunset nail polish complementing the fluffy yellow-white kernel and golden butter. She makes fresh pasta, sauces, and pestos in the Merc's commercial kitchen on Mondays and Tuesdays, and gets a manicure every Wednesday.

“We tested them all,” Tracy said, settling onto a red vinyl stool at the stainless steel counter separating shop floor from kitchen, her second sample in hand. “Cajun, dark cocoa, bacon salt.” She made a face at that one.

“And everyone's favorite”—I paused for effect—“cheesy garlic,” as Tracy sang out “caramel marshmallow.”

“They sound divine. I popped in—no pun intended—the
day you tried truffle salt, but I didn't hear that on your menu,” Fresca said.

“Too expensive. We need to keep every variety the same price.”

Her coral lips tightened. She thinks I pay too much attention to cost of goods sold, inventory on hand, turnover rates, and price point—“all that business blah blah blah”—but we were finally making a profit. Not a lavish one, but trending up. The Merc had not turned a profit under her care, though she established a tradition of great food with a local emphasis. I thought we could have it all. So far, so good.

It's particularly important to keep costs down on “adventure food” or “splurge snacks”—foods people don't need, but think would be fun to try. We managed by packaging the blends in clear resealable bags dressed up with labels my sister designed.

“Speaking of divine, Candy's bringing in a special taste treat.” Candy Divine—Candace DeVernero on the checks I write her every month. “Jewel Bay Critter Crunch.”

“You love Critter Crunch but can't stand caramel marshmallow popcorn. What's the difference?” Tracy said, laughing.

“One has chocolate and nuts and the other has marshmallows,” I replied. She rolled her eyes at my food quirks. Not that I think anyone who drinks Diet Coke for breakfast has a leg to stand on in Taste Wars.

“It all sounds wonderful, darling.” My mother kissed my cheek. “And Tracy, the shop looks so festive.”

Tracy beamed. “See you tomorrow, Erin. 'Night, Fresca.”

Last spring, when my mother asked me to come home and run the shop, Tracy worried that she'd be fired or forced out when the Merc once again became a family business. But while we have our moments, on the whole, we make a good team.

“And I'm off as well. Bill and I are going to Paris for the evening.”

One of the many advantages of my mother's involvement with Bill Schmidt, the town's only ex-lawyer herbalist, is that she now has someone besides me to drag along to festivities, this one a French-themed fund-raiser for the community college in Pondera. We'd been so focused on the displays that I'd barely noticed my mother's flapper dress, seamed stockings, and wool felt cloche. And the dead fox draped over her shoulders, beady black eyes and all.

“Where did you find that thing?” I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, geez. It's nearly six. I meant to fix that inventory glitch before Pool Night.”

“It belonged to your grandmother Murphy,” she said. “Don't you remember, Nick used to scare you with it when you were little?”

I remembered. The only thing Nick liked about having two little sisters was terrorizing us. “And you wonder why he became a wildlife biologist? Have fun.”

“You, too, darling. Stay out too late.” She sashayed off into the night.

I locked the front door, switched off the lights, and carried the iPad and the vintage metal sewing box we use as a cash register up the half flight of stairs to the loft.

The office finally felt like my space. Fresca's collection of cookbooks and food magazines had migrated, stack by stack, to shelves we'd installed in the basement—given a thorough cleaning and spiffing after last summer's misadventures. We'd swapped the old green-and-gold linoleum for a slate look and painted the walls Roasted Red Pepper, a name that always makes me hungry. I'd begun sprinkling in personal touches, including a painting I bought from Christine last summer at the Art and Food Festival.

I sank into the fancy desk chair Tracy had scored second-hand, remembering what I'd rather forget. Murder and
mayhem. Threats to my family, my friends, and this marvelous, maddening pile of bricks.

And to me.

My right hand circled automatically around my left wrist, my thumb massaging the three colored stars tattooed there.

Thank goodness for winter. Cold, calm, peaceful winter.

“F
our in the corner pocket,” Kyle Caldwell said, and I knew we were sunk.

If you had told me a year ago that the highlight of my week would be a burger and a beer at Red's followed by hours of good-natured but competitive pool shooting, I'd have asked what you'd been smoking.

Well, everyone else is competitive. My run of beginner's luck was screeching to a halt.

Adam leaned his long frame against the paneled wall, fingers wrapped loosely around a cue, a bottle of Moose Drool brown ale dangling from the other hand. A neon sign for Pabst Blue Ribbon glowed above him, giving his dark curls red and blue highlights. He has a natural detachment, an ease that rarely fails. “Unflappable,” my mother says. Good trait in a man who runs outdoor programs and a summer wilderness camp for kids.

Also, a nice balance for what my mother calls my “energy.”

His black-coffee eyes met my brown ones. He winked.

“Five in the side.” Kyle tapped the cue ball with a soft
touch, the cue ball hit the five with a heavy clonk, and the solid orange ball slid down the hole and rattled down the rail to join its littermates.

“He's running the table,” Christine said. She'd wrapped red and white ribbons around her coil of hair, making it look like a drunken candy cane.

When he was on it, and we gave him half a chance, Kyle often ran the table. As the last shooter, I'd given him more than half a chance. Three-quarters, at least.

Nick crept up behind Christine and leaned in to kiss her neck, her short sturdy frame a contrast to his slender height. When we started playing a few weeks ago, after Christmas, he'd sworn they were just friends.

That was then; this was now.

The game ended. Kyle racked and his teammate and cousin, Kim Caldwell, broke with a sharp, satisfying crack. This round pitted them against Nick and Christine, so I two-stepped across the room, in time to the music blaring through the speakers. Satellite radio.

“Hey, good-lookin.'”

“Hey, yourself.” Adam set his cue aside and drew me close. He tasted like chocolate and hops. “Your brother and Christine are having fun.”

“I like her,” I said. “A lot. But she dumped him once, a couple of years ago, and it hit him hard. I hope she isn't using him because she's lonely.”

“You mean after Iggy died.”

“Yeah. Not that one relationship is anything like the other, but . . .” Despite a fifty-year or more age gap, Iggy and Christine had been fast friends as well as studio mates and painting partners.

“But Nick came back to town right about the time Iggy died, and you can't help wondering if Christine latched onto him for the right reasons.”

Adam's astute observation made me wonder if my
boyfriend and my brother had been talking. “I guess I should let him figure that out,” I said.

He squeezed my shoulder in agreement. “Hey, we're invited for a snow barbecue Sunday, after skiing.”

The front door opened and a blast of arctic air blew in, ruffling the red-and-white bunting Red's leaves up all year. A stocky man in grease-worn Carhartts and work boots, a ball cap pulled tight, shoved the door closed.

“Jack Frost,” the crowd yelled.

Not some magic winter incarnation, but his name. A Friday night regular, also known as “the Junkman.” He waved nicotine-stained fingers and stomped to the bar.

And as he stomped, Christine gave him the evil eye.

A few minutes later the last game ended, the Caldwell cousins still the champs. We ordered a plate of nachos and a basket of Red's waffle fries and settled around a scuffed wooden table. The smells of hot cheese and jalapeños mingled with the scents of hot potatoes, salt, and spicy mustard.

The front door flew open again. Two men headed for the bar, passing our table on the way.

“Look who the cat dragged in.” Kyle stood, tall, slender, and blond like all his family, and extended a hand toward a man about his own age—mid-thirties—but his opposite at about five-seven and two hundred pounds. Opposite in dress, too: Kyle had traded the chef's duds he wore by day for jeans, boots, and a collared gray knit pullover. The other man's royal blue parka hung open, exposing pleated khakis and a navy tie dotted with green sailboats loose at the neck of his pink button-down.

“Caldwell,” the man said, squeezing Kyle's hand in his own plump mitt. “Haven't seen you in ages.” The sight whisked me back to a hot August day. Danny Davis, manager of the rental car agency in Pondera.
PON-duh-ray
, the big town—all of thirty thousand—thirty miles away. He'd given me the evidence I'd needed to persuade the undersheriff to
probe a little deeper. Evidence that proved a man a liar and a killer.

“You know some of these folks, don't you?” Kyle gestured around the table. “Christine Vandeberg, meet Dan Davis. My high school buddy and fellow car nut. Nick and Erin Murphy, I think you know.”

Nick stood and they shook hands. Four years my senior, he may not have known Danny. Kyle and Danny had been a year ahead of me, though Danny had barely been on my radar screen. As their hands dropped, Danny's eyes settled on me and I wasn't sure if they were friendly or not.

“Adam Zimmerman.” Adam's chair leg hooked mine as he pushed it back, forcing him to an awkward half stand.

“And you know my cousin Kim,” Kyle said. “Don't get on her bad side. She's a pool shark.”

Not to mention a deputy sheriff. Danny rubbed his face and his eyes flitted around our table, chased by a hearty bellow. “So this is where the action is in Jewel Bay. Red's never changes.”

“What brings you down here on a Friday night? You live in Pondera, don't you?” Kyle reached for his chair. “Sit. Have a beer.”

“Dropping off a rental car.” Danny grabbed an empty chair from the next table, spun it around, and sat, arms folded over the chair back. An “I'm not staying” gesture. “Thought we'd grab a drink before heading home.”

“We were talking about the film festival these two”—Kyle pointed first at Christine, then at me—“cooked up.”

“The Food Lovers' Film Festival,” Christine said. “Next weekend. Five great films, classic movie food. An Oscar feast to wrap it up on Sunday. You should come over.”

“I do love food.” He reached for the nachos.

“Six great films,” I said. “Don't forget the kids' documentary. World premiere.”

Kyle set his bottle on the table and leaned back. “Right. High school Film Club, Video Club, whatever they call it
now. They shot a piece on classic cars and their owners—serious collectors. And a few basic car nuts like you and me.”

Danny frowned and tugged a wad of chips, cheese, and peppers off the platter. “What's that got to do with food and the Oscars?”

I slid the napkin holder toward him. “Nothing. It's just a way to showcase the kids' project. Last summer, a rally came through town. A dozen pre-war Rolls-Royces, including a Silver Ghost from 1910, same year as the Merc was built. The owner and I got talking, and the kids got out their cameras. Shot some footage, realized they might have a story.”

“The story of horsepower and obsession,” Nick said.

“They even filmed me,” Kyle said. “Remember that old 1970 GTO Judge? You and I spent every spare hour in the barn. We tuned that engine till it purred.”

In the dim bar light, I saw the other man shift on the hard chair, wincing at its discomfort.

“You don't still have that old wreck?”

“Yeah. Parked it when I went in the Army, and there it stayed. I go pet it occasionally. Still in good shape—some minor body damage.” Kyle had enlisted after graduation. Became a cook. Went to Iraq. Came home and worked his way up to head chef at Caldwell's Eagle Lake Lodge and Guest Ranch, the family biz. “Drove it around for the kids. Been too busy to work on it, but I'm getting the bug again. Might turn it into my summer car.”

Beside me, Kim scraped her boot on the wood floor. I had the feeling she hadn't quite forgiven her cousin for his part in the Art Festival tragedy, though they'd buddied up for Friday night pool. His had been a bit part, stemming from an old mistake, but as I knew too well, Kim does not let resentments go easily.

J.D., the new man at Red's, cleared our empty beers and brought a new round. He gave Danny a questioning look.

“Gin and tonic, at the bar,” he said, his hands in push-up position on the chair back. “Been some changes around here after all.”

“J. D. Beckstead. Old Ned's grandson,” I said. “So there's still a Redaway behind the bar at Red's, despite the last name. And a redhead, to boot.”

“It'll be good for Ned to have family around, after what happened in June,” Christine said. “Not to mention what happened at the Art Festival. After a run of crime like that, you start to wonder, but thank goodness the system worked.”

Amen to that.
My own father's death in a hit-and-run nearly fifteen years ago had never been resolved. I was grateful that another family had gotten justice, or some semblance of it.

Kyle picked up his fresh beer. “The guy had to know they'd figure it out. Somebody always sees something.”

Danny stood abruptly, the wooden chair creaking. For a bulky man, he moved with grace. I had an idea he'd been one of my father's basketball players. In small towns, kids of all sizes play all kinds of sports.

“Good to see you, Kyle, Kim.” His quick glance around the table took in all of us. “Don't have too much fun tonight.” He winked and headed for the bar.

“You know, little sis, you guys ought to put on a wildlife film festival,” Nick said.

Christine snickered and stood. One of the few visible changes since my mother bought the building from Ned last summer had been to make the women's room a place a woman no longer cringed at the thought of visiting.

As soon as she was out of earshot, I leaned across the table to my brother. “So, you guys back together or what?”

Nick played with his beer. “Christine isn't the kind of woman you cut out of your life, just because you don't want to spend the rest of it with her.”

“Because you're not that kind of guy,” I said.

Sharp words spoken near the bar caught my ear. Red's
was still Ned Redaway's business, not my family's, but the tone was hard to ignore.

Christine uttered an equally sharp reply I couldn't decipher, her pale skin flushed. Jack Frost spun his barstool, showing her his back, and barked an order at J.D.

But she was all smiles when she returned. We drank our beers and ate our nachos and fries—Red's makes the world's best waffle fries. We chatted about the film festival, the winter slowdown, business, art, food. How much fun it is to hang out and play pool, even though the Caldwells usually win.

“They must be cheating,” Nick said, “but I can't figure out how.”

“That,” Kim replied, pointing a nacho at him, “is because you are too lame a player to recognize masters at work.”

Fighting words.

“Hey, Caldwell,” Danny Davis said on his way out. “Let me sell that rust heap GTO for you. Get you in a real ride.”

Kim looked at him sharply, jaw tight. Kyle turned in his seat. “You faker. Half an hour ago, you called it a piece of junk. You trying to con me?”

“Your choice. You want to drive around like some old fart trying to hang on to his youth, or grow real balls.”

Men and car talk. One more thing I'll never understand.